Generations
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Fear not for the future; weep not for the past.


Disclaimer: These aren't my characters and I make no profit from them.

**Author's Note: **Matt's back. In this one he's about eight. There's a reference in here to the story "Buried Treasure" which is set two years earlier

**Generations**

by L.M. Lewis

Mark thought he'd come up with a good plan, even if it had included getting up before dawn—a heck of thing to do on a holiday weekend, but the only way he figured he could get everything done. What he hadn't counted on was finding Matt, already up and dressed in his Little League uniform. Come to think of it, he wasn't sure Kathy had actually persuaded the kid to take it off the night before, when he'd tried it on for size and photos. But there he was, already at the breakfast table, having managed to rustle up his own Choco-Puffs breakfast.

Mark scratched his head. "Don't suppose you made any coffee yet."

Matt shook his head solemnly.

"S'okay." Mark reached for his own box—something that looked and tasted like rabbit pellets and was a recommended part of a grown-up's daily routine. He took a bowl from the dishwasher and began pouring, then paused, glancing sideward. "Are those any good?" He indicated what remained of his son's concoction, floating in now brown-tinged milk.

Matt nodded happily.

"Lemme try 'em."

The box was pushed toward him and Mark reached in, grabbing a handful and munching it thoughtfully. He swallowed.

"Geez . . . they're kinda—"

"'_Chocoriffic_'," Matt said, with the cheerful enthusiasm of the converted.

Mark stared briefly at the box and then his son. "That wasn't the word I was searching for, kiddo." He sighed, sat, and continued pouring the rabbit-fodder into his bowl.

Matt didn't finish his faux-chocolate milk, 'riffic or not. He was already up from his seat and had to be reminded, with a pointing finger, that his bowl needed rinsing out. Mark squinted up at the kitchen clock. It was still just shy of dawn—5:40 a.m.

"What time did Uncle Frank want you guys over there for the parade?"

"Ten o'clock," Matt said, bouncing slightly.

"That's what I thought. You're up kinda early, you know that?" Mark knew exactly what it was: excitement, pure and simple—being in the parade, followed by Rally Day and a picnic.

Matt had already been back and forth to the door a couple of times, tried his hat on and knocked the bat over, from where it leaned in the corner by the broom closet. Mark winced at the clatter and glanced up toward the ceiling and the master bedroom overhead.

"Sorry," Matt grabbed for it and stood it up again. "I'm not tired. Really. When can we go?"

Mark already knew he wasn't going to get to run his other errand unaccompanied. He looked at the clock again. "I've got something else to do before we go over to the park. Grandpa's truck's in the shop, remember? I told him I'd give him a ride today."

Matt paused in his random wanderings and was now smiling broadly. "He said he's gonna show me how to spit watermelon seeds."

"Your mother will be so pleased." Mark shook his head and broke into a grin of his own. "From now on it'll be seedless watermelons only. But, anyway, we've got a stop to make, first. Okay? Somebody grandpa wants to visit."

Matt was nodding his understanding as his father got to his feet and gave his own bowl a perfunctory rinse. He grabbed a pad of paper and a pen from the sink near the phone and turned back to the table.

"Whatcha doing _now_?" Matt nudged up next to him, peering over his arm.

"Leaving mom a note so she doesn't think you were kidnapped or something . . . ran off with pirates maybe."

Matt heaved a sigh of impatience.

"Moms worry about stuff like that," Mark admonished him. "There, done." He pinned it down with a saltshaker and headed for the door, swooping up the bat and ushering Matt in front of him.

00000

Traffic was light, with nearly everyone already where they wanted to be on the final morning of the three-day-weekend. They pulled in under the Gulls Way sign with the sun just putting in an appearance over the San Gabriels.

They headed for the back door and found Hardcastle there, finishing the last of his own bowl of cereal.

"See, grandpa likes Choco-Puffs, too." Matt pointed to the tell-tale box on the table.

Mark frowned his mild disapproval. "Grandpa likes Pinky Fizz, too."

"Whatsamatter with Pinky Fizz?" The judge grumped. "I think it's got some grapefruit juice in it or something."

"'Or something' is about right. You ready to go?"

The older man nodded and stood, putting his bowl in the sink. "Almost," he said. "I need a couple of roses." He cast an eye at Matt as he opened the drawer and took out a black-handled pair of scissors. "Those pink and white ones by the side of the house. You know them?"

Matt nodded as the scissors were handed over.

"Two, cut the stems kinda long, will ya?" The judge demonstrated, his hands nearly a foot apart.

Matt nodded again and scooted out.

"Careful with those, they're sharp," Hardcastle shouted belatedly.

Mark winced and muttered "'Runs with scissors'," then turned to the judge and said, "You don't mind my bringing him? He was up already, all excited about everything." He felt a little twinge of guilt and it must've shown on his face.

Hardcastle discounted it with a wave of his hand.

"It's a holiday," he said pragmatically. "Why shouldn't the kids enjoy themselves? That'd be the only good reason for all of it in the first place, don'tcha think? So that the kids could be safe and happy, grow up, and maybe have kids of their own?"

Matt was back, breathless. He had two cream-colored roses with pink-tipped petals and stems of prodigious length. "I cut 'em on a slant," he held them up for his grandfather's inspection, "so they'll last."

He had, Mark thought, though even at best a cut rose is a transitory thing.

"Good job." Hardcastle nodded his approval and took back the scissors.

"Water." Mark turned and rooted in the top layer of the garbage can, pulled out an empty Pinky Fizz bottle, rinsed it at the sink and filled it halfway. "Here."

The stems were wedged into the impromptu vase, Matt frowning.

"It's just for now," his father said. "We ready?" he asked the judge.

"Just about." Hardcastle took a paper bag from the end of the sink and they processioned out, Matt now carefully carrying the bottle roses.

00000

It was almost eight-thirty by the time they got there, and there were already other vehicles parked along the winding paths. Mark found a space just large enough to accommodate his car and tucked it into the spot.

"You want company?" he asked Hardcastle quietly.

The older man seemed to hesitate and Mark finally answered for him. "It's okay. We'll hang out here. Take your time."

"Sorry," Hardcastle muttered. "Just give me a minute or two."

He reached into the paper bag and pulled out the stick, rolling down the rubber band that held the small flag tightly coiled. It took a moment to unfurl itself, stiff with starching and ink. He pulled at it, straightening it some.

Mark took the bottle and its contents from Matt, who was sitting forward in the back seat and looking puzzled. He handed them over to the judge.

"You can manage?" he asked, as if it were some considerable burden.

Hardcastle quirked an unexpected half-grin at this. "Always have." Then his expression went sober again with a sigh as he climbed out and trudged off across the grass, wending his way between the marker stones.

Matt leaned forward further between the two front seats, watching for a moment and then twisting around to face his father.

"Where's he going?"

Mark didn't have to answer that except with a nod. Matt turned again. They both watched as the older man, having arrived at his destination, stooped to plant the flag, straightening it slightly and then straightening himself with apparent weariness. There was a moment in which he stood, head bowed.

"Who's buried over there?" Matt asked curiously.

"His son . . . Tom," Mark said absently. "Remember the marbles grandpa gave you a couple years ago?"

Matt nodded. "From the yard, under the tree. I still have 'em."

"I told you about Tommy, remember?"

"He was a soldier and he got killed."

"A Marine. Yeah. Grandpa comes and puts a flag on his grave every year for Memorial Day. And the bigger stone next to it, that's for Nancy—"

"Like the place where you work."

"Yup," Mark nodded. "Nancy Hardcastle—she was Tom's mom and we named the law clinic after her."

"How come you didn't call it for both of them?"

Mark started and cast a sharp look at his son, who sometimes came up with the unexpected. He had to give that one some quick thought. It was more a question of how to phrase it, than figuring out the answer itself.

"Some things hurt too much to talk about . . . some things you don't want to say out loud."

Matt seemed to give this some consideration, and then nodded. The judge had lifted his head now and was looking back toward them. He jerked it in an obvious beckon. Matt scrambled out of the car, with Mark joining him after a moment's hesitation.

"Don't run," he said quietly. "It's a cemetery."

Matt managed to maintain a decorous pace most of the way there. The last few steps he even seemed to slow down, maybe catching a dose of his father's reluctance.

"Maybe you could do this for me," Hardcastle said to the boy. He held the bottle out and pointed to the bronze bud vase mounted at the base of the larger stone.

Matt didn't seem to respond at first and Mark followed his son's gaze to the stone itself, engraved on one half with Nancy's name and dates, and on the other half with the judge's name as well.

"That's how they do it," Mark said hastily to the boy. "They put the other person's name on it ahead of time." He thought that hadn't made things any better. Matt was still standing there, pretty rigid.

Hardcastle coaxed the roses toward Matt, speaking in a low, quiet tone that Mark rarely heard him use. "It's okay, kiddo. We all gotta go eventually, right?"

It wouldn't have been Mark's way to put it, not as bluntly as that, but there must've been something in the man's voice—some reassurance that 'eventually' was still a long way off. Matt nodded silently and wrested the roses from the bottle. Then he knelt down and put them in the vase.

"Water, too," Hardcastle bent slightly and handed him the bottle. Matt poured; the water welled up and over.

"Oops." Matt jumped up before the puddle could reach the knees of his brand-new, never-slid-into-home-plate white pants.

"'Sokay," the judge assured him. "The grass could use some, too."

As if suddenly reminded of what he was standing on, Matt stepped back cautiously. He sneaked one quick but curious look at the flat stone next to Nancy's. Mark gazed down at it, too.

It was Hardcastle who finally cleared his throat and said, "Guess we oughta get going, huh? You've got a parade to march in."

"Yeah, Uncle Frank said anybody who's late has to carry a shovel and march behind the horses."

The judge laughed. Matt picked up speed—a couple of hops and it was a full-blown canter. He was back at the car, panting and hanging on the door handle, waiting for the other two.

The judge turned to Mark, chin down and hands in pockets. "Sorry, I don't even notice it anymore. Just plumb forgot it was there," he said quietly.

"It's kind of jarring, I've got to admit, even when you're expecting it . . . but you're right, dying is part of life. You can't deny it's going to happen to us all, eventually."

Hardcastle slowed, stopped, and looked over his shoulder for a long, pensive moment. Mark pulled up a few feet beyond him and looked back as well.

"Eventually," the older man murmured, frowning slightly. Then he turned toward the car, picking up his own pace. "But not till I've had a couple more hotdogs and some watermelon."

Mark grinned, shook his head, and followed on.


End file.
